Cherries
by WickedWickedMe
Summary: The gate creaked open without a sound, unlike the past times he had been here. She must have oiled it recently. And he smiled, and she smiled, and the smell of cherries lingered in the air. Amian. Of course.


**A/N: I do not own the 39 Clues. **

He could smell them, the cherries as they hung on the trees. Blood-red dots backed against green leaves.

Summer, the sun high in the sky, he could smell the cherries in that little brick garden off the way in the backyard of that old woman's mansion. But her mansion had paled in comparison to his. _Small but ugly_, he had wanted to say but never did, _small but ugly_. My granddaughter will show you around, the old lady had said, pouring tea out of a porcelain teapot into a porcelain teacup for his mother. His mother's cold, unforgiving eyes landed on him. He knew what his mother wanted; she wanted him to leave the room so she could talk to that old woman herself.

And the Cahill girl had brought him here, to a garden filled with cherry trees. It was her favourite place, she told him, she came here when she was sad. Then she had smiled, lighting up her jade-green eyes.

Do I care, he had snarled at her, hissing like a snake.

Then she had recoiled, took a step back, hurt and shocked.

And he had smirked and took a deep breath of the air which smelt so much like cherries.

Spring, the smell of cherries filled the air, just like the last time he had been here. Still the brick walled garden, still the blood red cherries. They had walked side by side, she had been wary; he had tried not to get soil on his slippery shoes. She didn't speak. Neither did he. _Awkward silence_, he had thought. But he hadn't done anything to ease it. Finally, she broke it. _C-can y-y-you s-smell the c-ch-cherries, _she had stuttered. He gave a curt nod. They had continued walking along and the silence had resumed; it was almost deafening. Suddenly, she went off the track. He looked at her heading to a small, rickety stepladder propped up against the woody trunk of a cherry tree.

And he remembered thinking, _what the hell was she trying to do, break her neck?_

And when she started to climb the stepladder, _he had thought, my god, she was trying to break her neck. _

She had stepped her way up inch by minute inch, and the ladder had wobbled dangerously every little step she took up. He went off the track and stood below the ladder.

Yelled out, what are you trying to do?

The Cahill girl had whispered, _picking the cherries_, her voice was soft, the cherries were smaller but sweeter at this time of the year, as if the ladder would topple over if she raised her voice too much.

One more step she had taken up the ladder, it wobbled dangerously.

Another step, she had tried to reach for a bunch of cherries near her. And she had fallen, cherries in hand, eyes wide.

And he had caught her as she fell, then she had thanked him.

And he remembered putting her down and shrugging, and he remembered her not meeting his gaze, and he remembered taking a long sniff of the air.

And he'd remembered the air was fragrant, with the smell of cherries.

Again, in the brick garden. He had walked along the path, in the tiny garden with the crumbling brick walls and the long-overgrown grass. His mother had some business to attend to with the old woman; thus he had wandered about himself, and had somehow ended up in the garden.

_The garden gave him a sense of serenity_, he had thought.

This time, he had ambled along aimlessly, not sure of what to do or where to go without the Cahill girl to guide him. And he found that he'd missed her presence. He had walked to a wooden bench, under the same cherry tree she had fallen from, saw the same stepladder he had stumbled on, and he sat down on the bench, his lips tiled upwards.

_Cherries, he could smell the cherries_, he thought.

His mother shouted for him.

_No matter_, he had thought, thinking of her jade-green eyes.

He had stood up and walked over to the rusty, wrought iron gates of the garden. Just before he stepped out, he turned back for one last look at the garden. And he missed the Cahill girl, and he remembered the times where he would smirk at her and all she did was to blush and turn away.

The next time he had entered the garden, the same tiny garden with the cherry trees and the smell of cherries in the air was when the old woman passed away. And he had arrived in the mansion in his tuxedo, watching out for the girl with the green, jade-coloured eyes. He hadn't been able to see her, and in a last-bid attempt to find her, he walked through the rustier-than-ever iron gate.

The he remembered thinking, it was funny, really. The first thing that registered in his head was the smell of cherries in the air, and not the muffled sobs coming from somewhere in the garden.

Then he had stepped in and walked towards the sobs, which grew from faint to slightly louder. He stood behind a blossoming cherry tree and watched her.

She was on a bench, the same one he had sat on when he last came here, her head in her hands, her red hair covering her face. Letting out muted sobs through her covered face, a thick book lay closed beside her.

And he had wanted to go up to her and make a sarcastic comment or two, and possibly humiliate her, but he somehow could not do it. Her painful sobs wracked his chest, but he stayed where he was and watched her, for he had known not what to do then.

So he stood behind the cherry tree smelling the strong scent of the cherries, carefully watching the Cahill girl in the black dress with a covered face cry her eyes on an almost-rotten bench amidst the multitude of cherry trees growing in the back garden.

It had seemed so long since the last time he had set foot into the same garden. A late evening in the fall, the fragrance of the cherries was almost nought. But still, one could faintly, faintly smell cherries in the air. A few of the reddest, juiciest and sweetest cherries hung on the branches of the many trees in the garden; the rest had been long since gone.

He pushed the iron gate open, expecting it to creak like the previous times he had been here, but to his surprise, it didn't.

_And it had not creaked_, he thought, _she must have oiled it._

Then he walked in, instinctively taking a deep breath and holding it for a fraction of a second to appreciate the scent. He had sneaked away from the Cahill family reunion, sneaked away from the laughing and feasting and joking and breaking of expensive crystal champagne glasses. He had come here, for some reason, he didn't know.

The orangey-red, dried cherry leaves crackled under his feet as he walked. She turned around, her lips stained red with cherry juice.

Their eyes met, he smiled at her, and she smiled at him. And he had walked to her, leaves crackling every step he had taken towards her.

And he took her in his arms, and they kissed.

When he stepped back, he smiled and smelt the cherries, the faint fragrance.

And he looked at her, and he smiled at her, and she smiled at him.

And they went back, arm in arm.

And the cherry leaves crackled under their shoes.

And the smell of cherries lingered in the air – faint, but one could still smell them.

**A/N: I hope you all enjoyed that, after my absence from this archive (IM SORRY! DON'T KILL ME!), and I worked real hard on this so please, reviews appreciated!**

**~Love as usual, Wicked.**

**By the way, I do not own the 39 Clues. **


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